Weekend Trip
by oceanforsail
Summary: Alfred calls up Arthur with a ridiculous favor to ask, and Arthur can't help but to comply. USUK oneshot, and old story I wrote a while ago.


_Weekend Trip, originally written for a contest._

* * *

Arthur was reading _The Tempest_[1] when Alfred called.

He was in the middle of the opening scene, where the main characters are screaming and shouting as their ship is being buffeted by a Mediterranean squall. His eyes began to drift away from the page as the words conjured up images of sea spray and roaring winds, ripping at his face as he stands defiantly against it all from the rigging effortlessly, as his ship heaves and pitchsd in the storm. Ah, the days when Britannia ruled the waves.

Arthur felt a smile creep into his face as he reminisced about a certain Spaniard crying in defeat. Yes, naval victories were something he was quite used to[2]. Why, he had even beat that American on the seas two centuries before, just like that one battle between His Majesty's _Guerriere_, and that brat's…_Constitution_…[3] .

Damn, Arthur thought, grimacing as he remembered that one. He snapped back and looked around his parlour then, hoping to find something comfortably familiar to focus on instead. It wasn't good to think of such things.

A vibration in his breast pocket alerted him then that a call was coming in, and Arthur reached his hand into his shirt to retrieve it.

"Hello?" he said politely into the receiver.

"Yo dude," was the greeting that came from the other end of the line.

"Ah, Alfred," Arthur said sweetly. The syrupy kind, that makes your teeth hurt.

"Hey, so Steven[4] called in sick, and I need someone else for that new movie," Alfred told him, his words sounding oddly thick and garbled. Arthur assumed the American was eating his weight in food on the other end of the line.

"And this concerns me how?" Arthur asked, his brows furrowing. It might not have been the nicest of reactions to give, but he had prior engagements already. The weekend was going to be filled with sun, and after two weeks brimming with rain, he was quite itching to tend his begonias.

"Well," said Alfred, huffing dramatically, "I need someone to fill in, duh."

"And what movie would this be?" Arthur asked, taking his free hand to massage the bridge of his nose.

"Final Destination Ten [5]!" Alfred screamed exuberantly into the phone, making Arthur wince as his ears rang.

_He's made nine of them?_ Arthur thought incredulously, as he bored a hole through the Primrose-yellow wallpaper with his glare.

"Alfred, I have no interest in your bloody horror movies," Arthur told him. "Certainly not until you learn some proper English suspense[6], at least."

"Dude, that's boring!" Alfred said in defense. "You gotta have blood and guts everywhere!"

"I am not doing it. I am planning to garden over the weekend."

Arthur was greatly displeased to hear some poorly stifled laughter on the other end. He frowned.

"Aww, come on Iggs," Alfred whined, "It'll be fun!"

"I hardly think such."

"Come on, do it for me?"

Arthur was suddenly brought back to an earlier time, when the American was a tiny lad, and could whittle anything out of him with a wide-eyed expression that made you feel as if you had kicked a puppy. Arthur couldn't see the expression now of course, but he could tell Alfred was making it. He could _hear_ it in his voice. The corners of his mouth turned downwards more deeply still.

"_Please_?" Alfred begged.

Arthur really felt like he really had kicked a puppy now.

His hand began to twitch and claw at the air of its own accord, as the painted lavender and rose blooms on his walls burned and withered under his gaze.

"Fine," he sighed after a moment, grimacing.

"Awesome!" Alfred shouted. "So you'll fly over tonight, right?"

Arthur blanched. "_Tonight_?" he asked incredulously. "Are you really so daft as to think I could simply leave everything at the drop of a hat, and fly five and a half _thousand_ meters?!"

"Yeah," Alfred said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, I'll pay for it. Once you get over here."

Arthur had to pause for a moment, and pick up his thoughts, having dropped them all from shock. Alfred wanted him to come _that night_ to his house, and pay for the flight out of his own pocket. Would he really submit to something so utterly, completely ridiculous?

They both knew he would.

Ten hours later, Arthur was in John F. Kennedy International Airport, standing in line while waiting to pass through customs. He wondered for a moment or two if he presented the image of a cool, calm British Gentleman to the others before and behind him in line, though he didn't care greatly of their opinions either way. He was wearing a thick sweater covered by his tan coat, and dress trousers and shoes; his sturdy, fashionable traveling wear. He always dressed well when traveling. It was a ritual routine after centuries of practice.

Not that it was something to be ashamed of, of course.

Arthur's head turned a degree has he heard a commotion develop, and he watched as a woman was pulled out of the line, a few spots ahead of him, to be patted down by a security guard. He mused that either America's security must have grown more paranoid again, or the guard simply wanted an excuse to feel someone up. As he held a placid gaze on the scene, he found it hard to tell which it was more likely, decided it didn't matter, and calmly turned his attention back to the line, shuffling along with the other people. A few minutes later a pretty girl was looking his passport over with a somewhat robotic expression. She stamped it and waved him on, and Arthur went off to find his baggage.  
It wasn't difficult to find the carousels; after all, he had traveled from Good old Heathrow to New York a few scores[7] over already, so he knew his way around quite well, he did think.

Alfred was waiting for him by the baggage carousels, grinning as always, and dressed in a pair of jeans and sneakers with a tee shirt underneath his old bomber jacket. As Arthur got close, he had enough time to see the shirt read "Want a bite of my American pie?" on it, before Alfred scooped him up into a spine-shattering hug.

"Iggs!" Alfred shouted happily, squeezing him and laughing.

Arthur's feet were dangling twenty centimeters off the floor, and he was not enjoying it.

"Put me _down_!" Arthur shouted, somehow managing to put the words out despite his lungs slowly collapsing.

Alfred gave him an extra squeeze quickly, making Arthur give a throaty gasp, and then he set him down without any ado or gentleness.

Arthur smoothed out his jacket, making a show of the invisible dust he brushed off, and then turned his attention to the winding conveyor belts piled with baggage. He would be at a loss of what to do if he missed his suitcase.

Luckily he had not, he found,with relief, a few moments later, as the cumbersome black case came along on the belt, and he grabbed it up comfortably.

"You all set?" Alfred asked him then, bouncing on his heels slightly as he waited for a reply. _He was never good at waiting for anything_, Arthur thought. He then realised he was reminiscing, and quickly put a stop to it.

"Yes, I am set," Arthur replied dryly, and stood in front of the young man expectantly.

"Great!" Alfred cheered, and stuffed a stack of papers into the other's free hand.

"What are these?" Arthur asked, furrowing his brows in bemusement.

"The script for the movie!" Alfred told him excitedly. "I need help, remember?"

"Ah, yes, the script," Arthur drawled. "For your…movie…"

"Yeah dude!" Alfred shouted, pumping a fist into the air. "Now let's go!" And with that he grabbed his arm, and proceeded to drag him along through the airport.

Arthur tried - several times, to be noted - to protest, but each time the American simply laughed, and ignored him. Annoyingly.

After a few minutes, Alfred set him down at a table, and grinned at him. Arthur looked around, and saw that his table was surrounded by many other tables. Which were surrounded by a series of chain restaurants that ringed the large, open space they were in. He was in a food court brimming with fast food. Arthur was horrified.

"So what do ya want?" Alfred asked, beaming at him as he took out his wallet.

"To go home and garden," Arthur replied promptly.

Alfred just laughed his dreams away. Arthur was sorely displeased.

"I'll get you some Tramway[8] then," Alfred declared, and dashed off before Arthur could utter a word.

Alfred was back far more quickly than Arthur had expected him to be; which wasn't to say much, as he was positively exhausted, and expected anything and everything to take an eternity. Time is money, time is money, but money says nothing of comfort, Arthur mused irritably as he massaged his back. He missed the days of sail, when a jot to the continent involved five days of comfort and luxury, instead of ten hours of long lines and insufferable airplane seats. To say nothing of the Comet[9] though. Those were proper planes, he reminisced happily. Except for those few crashes[10]... no, better not to think of such things.

Soon enough, Alfred was standing in front of him, carrying two trays in his hands piled impossibly high with burgers and other assorted non-foods containing chemicals and little else.

"Okay, I got you a thing of pasta from Sbatti[11] and a tea from…someplace," Alfred commented, as he set the trays down on the table and handed a plastic lidded dish and a Styrofoam cup to him.

Arthur lifted the little tab on the lid of the cup up and sniffed, and grimaced. He wasn't touching it, he decided firmly, and pushed the cup to the edge of the table with a finger.

Arthur then noticed the stack of burgers piled on Alfred's tray, and his eyes widened in horror. "Are you really going to eat _all_ those?" He asked, spluttering slightly.

"Of course not!" Alfred exclaimed. "I'm stocking up. Half are coming home with me."

Arthur was quite flabbergasted to think that someone would actually eat that food by _choice_, when they could home cook instead. He told himself to think of happy thoughts, and began to visualize a lovely green countryside before his eyes. The beautiful hills and mountains reminded him of that time Malcolm[12] came…to invade him…of course he pushed that back[13]…

Arthur broke his reverie, feeling none the better. It wasn't any good to think of such things.

"Okay, so what do you think of the script?" Alfred asked then.

"What?" Arthur said. "I haven't had a bloody chance to look at it yet."

"Do it now then," America told him, his mouth already full of burger beef of questionable quality.

Arthur sighed, and pulled out the script from his suitcase, somehow having had the mind to put it in earlier. "Which part are you wanting me to look at?" he asked, flipping through the pages. "I don't have the energy to read it all."

"Then this part," Alfred told him, and grabbed the pages out of his hand. He flipped through them a moment, then having found what he was looking for, handed the stack back to him.

Arthur skimmed the lines, his green eyes following the lines as he read on till the end of the page, and then once he finished, he looked up, fixed a glassy stare on Alfred, and told him "This is complete shite."

"Aww come on!" Alfred whined. "It's good right?" He stared at him, his blue eyes wide and sparkling, as he unwrapped a crunchy taco from its greasy paper wrapper.

" 'Ah, look out for that flying floor lamp'," Arthur read from the page, speaking the line in a completely monotone voice.

"Yeah!" Alfred exclaimed. "A ball knocks the lamp, and it flies through the air, with the wires sparking and stuff, and the person gets hit with it and electrocuted and stuff!"

"Yes, completely plausible," Arthur drawled, sardonic to the extreme.

"Are you gonna eat that?"

"What?" Arthur asked, taken aback by the sudden shift of topic.

"Your pasta crap. I want it," Alfred told him.

Arthur looked over at Alfred's tray, which had four empty burger wrappings on it already.

"No, I am not going to eat it," Arthur sighed, feeling nauseated, and handed the container to him.

"Thanks dude!" Alfred exclaimed, and proceeded to hunch over and shovel the food into his mouth with lightning speed. Once he was finished, he set the container down, and felt around the wrappers on his tray.

He pulled out several packets labeled Parmesan cheese with surprise, and stared at them as if they were some strange monstrosity. "Where did all the Parmesan cheese come from?" he asked, staring at the packets held out in his hand with a vague amazement.

"How would I possibly know?" Arthur responded, sighing.  
"Whatever," Alfred shrugged, and then emptied the contents of the packets into his mouth.

Arthur's jaw hung limp. "Your eating habits are truly deplorable," he told him, shuddering.

"Like your food is any better," Alfred countered, smirking at him.

Arthur drew himself up in his seat. "I find that comment entirely unfair and I resent it. My food is hearty and tasteful."

Alfred laughed well at that.

"Well, here's your script back," Arthur told him, thrusting the papers into his face. "I'm exhausted, so let's just head to your house now." He thought for a moment, and then hastily added "please." _Try to be polite,_ try_ to be polite_, Arthur chanted in his head, in an effort to stave off his growing migraine.

Alfred looked up at him as he finished stuffing the script back into some pocket inside his jacket, and his brows creased, nonplussed by the uncharacteristic bit of politeness.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," he said. "I'll get your bags."

Arthur nodded in thanks, and then slowly stood from his seat. The jet lag had kicked in double-force, and he wanted more than anything right then to leave the airport immediately and simply sleep it off.

Things began to get a little blurred for him then, as he watched the world through half-lidded eyes, and he wasn't aware of much besides a comforting arm around his shoulders gently guiding him until he was suddenly outside, in the dark and in a light rain.

"Here," Alfred said, handing him an umbrella, "I got this one for you. It made me think of you!"

Arthur took the umbrella in hand, and saw that it was red and spotted with polka dots in fuchsia. He didn't want to know why Alfred was reminded of him by polka dots in fuchsia.

Alfred was opening his own umbrella, a dark blue patterned with white stars.

"What time is it?" Arthur asked.

Alfred checked his watch. " 'Bout nine."

Arthur wondered how it could be so early for a few moments, before remembering that New York was five hours behind London. He settled into the knowledge as he grabbed up the handle of his suitcase, comfortable in knowing it wasn't so late for everyone else as himself.

Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder then, and as he looked up Alfred smiled at him, and then leaned in. Their lips melded for a few moments, before Alfred finally pulled away, and straightened up again. Arthur wasn't sure what to feel, so he simply smiled at him.

"I missed you," Alfred whispered, as they stood in the rain, umbrellas in hand.

Arthur nodded, and then stood on his toes, and whispered softly, a reply, into Alfred's ear.

Alfred smiled, and for a few moments the two just stood on the sidewalk, sharing the moment.

Then Alfred broke it, telling Arthur that his car was just around the block, and that parking was terrible these days even for a hero. Arthur tried to pay attention to the American's babbling, instead of giving into the urge to worry about the logistics of flying halfway around the world for a weekend pleasure trip. As they walked through the street, the rain made everything seem misty and yet clear, in that way a misty light rain does, and gave all the streetlamps a sort of holy halo. Arthur simply enjoyed the moment, instead of worrying about the real world. Sometimes, it wasn't good to think about such things.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

1. The Tempest: a play written by Shakespeare. Because England is the sort to read his favorite stories over and over again, and he loves Shakespeare's work, which is undoubtedly among the best in the history of English-language literature.

2. England is remembering his pirate days. It makes him feel good.

3. "_Guerriere_ ... _Constitution_" - Arthur here remembers the naval battle between the American _U.S.S. Constitution_ and the British _H.M.S. Guerriere_ on August 19th, 181_2 _(which was one of the few American victories of the War of 1812). The _Guerriere_ was completely destroyed while the _Constitution_ suffered minimal damage (the _Guerriere's_ cannonballs bounced right off the _Constitution's_ sides, which were of wood but also over two feet thick). It does not make him feel good.

4. Steven: Spielberg

5. Final Destination 10: making fun of how some movies get an infinite number of sequels.

6. Proper English suspense: I've heard that a lot of British horror movies are very Gothic in feel, with an emphasis on suspense and foreboding to create abject terror, which is an inverse of American horror movies, being mostly gory slashers.

7. a few scores over already: "score", as well as meaning the point value a team holds in sports, also means an amount of twenty of something, as a dozen means twelve of something. So England has traveled by plane several twenties of times across the Atlantic. As England is the type to stick to the tried and proven method though, he would certainly have continued sailing on passenger ships until they were supplanted by jet planes in the late 1960s. Arthur would have flown in Comets and Super-Constellations when time was short, but otherwise was always faithful to Cunard. Even in the 1980s and '90s he would have sailed from time to time on the QE2 (which ran standard transatlantic crossings until 2008).

8. Tramway: Like Subway, but not licensed.

9. An exception to Arthur's self-imposed "ships over planes" rule would have been the De Havilland plane the Comet, of the 1950s, as it was a British plane, and a very lovely plane inside and out to boot. It would have been cramped compared to a ship, but it was furnished well and was as nice as the finest rail cars of the 1940s and '50s.

10. The Comet suffered several crashes due to either terrible weather conditions or simply structural failure. The square windows turned out to have made the plane's fuselage weaker and prone to metal fatigue and failure, and subsequent models were made with ovular windows instead.

11. Sbatti: same deal with Tramway, an unlicensed version of Sbarro.

12. Malcolm: The name I gave to the bamf Scotland OC that some Pixiv person made, because I was only using human names in this fic.

13."to invade him": any of the times Scotland unsuccessfully invaded England. There were several.

Note: According to the contest rules, I had to incorporate the lines "Look out for that flying floor lamp!" and "Where did all that Parmesan cheese come from?" into the story somehow, and also somehow mention a spotted umbrella and a crunchy-shelled taco. So I did!


End file.
